For a moment he thought of the road not traveled. Of Mah-Li, of Anna. Of the future he would never have and the one he was destined to fulfill.
"Oh," Remo said, his voice small.
Chiun noted the pensive look on his pupil's face. Lest the boy lapse into another one of his maudlin funks or, worse, the woman read some romantic meaning into Remo's silence, he quickly chimed in.
"Sinanju contracts are nontransferable," the Master of Sinanju huffed, whirling on Anna. "Not that we would work for Russia under any circumstances. The entire nation smells like a distillery. Not to mention the fact that all the women are manlike and all the men are drunkards. Now, we could overlook the manful women because, let us be reasonable, you cannot help that. Besides, no one other than besotted Russian men are interested in coupling with them."
His voice dropped low. "Especially an Apprentice Master of Sinanju who can have his pick of comely Korean handmaidens," he added as warning. His voice grew loud once more. "But the rest cannot be easily dismissed. Tell your Kremlin masters that when you people stamp out alcoholism and do away with those silly little flirtations with communism and democracy you have engaged in these past few years, and are ready to install a new tzar like the beloved Ivan, then and only then will we talk. Until such time Russia is off-limits to our services. Consider yourselves under a Sinanju embargo." Face resolute, he crossed his arms rigidly. "Stand firm with me on this, Remo."
Remo seemed surprised to hear his name. He shook away the troubling memories. "Right," he nodded. He instantly shook his head. "No, wait. Wrong." His gaze grew hard, his jaw firmly set. "Before we put up Sinanju's version of the Berlin Wall, there's still one more Russian bill that needs paying."
And the seriousness with which he spoke the words caused both Anna Chutesov and the Master of Sinanju to share a rare, troubled frown.
Chapter 33
The man whose actions had inadvertently destroyed an empire slept peacefully beneath his heavy woolen blankets.
The last premier to rule the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was short and stocky, with a mild paunch and an affable face that, in slumber, made him resemble a human teddy bear. A white fringe of hair rimmed his otherwise bald pate. In the shadows of his bedroom, the famous wine-stain birthmark that was his trademark was a dark splotch.
He was a cuddly, grandfatherly figure with a pleasant smile and an open demeanor.
The blankets-which retained the aroma of mothballs from the upstairs cedar closet even this late in the Russian winter-rose and fell with each deep breath.
He had been a premier who called himself president. A powerful player on the world stage in days long gone.
These days he rarely dreamed of that old life. It had been years since his missteps had collapsed the Soviet Union. Years since he had been forced into private life. Years since anything he did mattered.
A final foray into politics a few years before had been humiliating. These days his life was occupied largely with global environmental causes.
As he slept this cold February night, winter wind rattling the windows of his cozy home, something seemed to creep into his consciousness. Snoring awake, the retired premier looked for the familiar glow of the digital clock. Through slivered eyes he saw that it was two in the morning.
He was closing his eyes when he thought he saw something dark move in front of the glowing red numbers.
For an instant his mind told him to be worried. But then a sudden intense feeling of drowsiness overtook him. With a big, growling yawn, he closed his heavy eyelids and fell into a deep, inviting sleep. When he next awoke the clock read 4:00 a.m.
With another yawn, the old premier pulled himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
He was passing the medicine cabinet on his way to the toilet when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
At first he thought he was seeing things. The glow of the nightlight was too weak to be sure. He snapped on the wall switch. When he saw his reflection his jaw dropped.
During the night his forehead birthmark had mutated. The main blotch now seemed to form a number. When he rolled his head to one side he saw that a letter was beside it.
In a panic, he pulled from the closet a small handheld mirror that had belonged to his late wife.
He soon found that the letters formed a slogan. With a sinking feeling in his ample gut he tracked it all around his bald pate. It wrapped his head like the logo on a tire.
He could not believe his eyes. The former premier was already despised in his own country. Somehow someone had broken into his home and tattooed him with the one thing that would make him even more hated than he was already.
The slogan that spread like a rash from his birthmark all around his head read U.S.A. #1.
Shoulders slumping, Russia's retired premier dropped the small hand mirror into the marble sink. Like the mighty empire he had once led, it cracked into a hundred jagged pieces.
Chapter 34
Between flights, Remo called Smith from a pay phone at London's Heathrow International Airport. "So that's that," he said as he finished explaining the details from Barkley and the side trip he and Chiun had taken to Russia. "If he wants to go hug any more trees, from now on he's gonna have to wear a hat or Crosby, Stills and Nash will stone him to death. Not that he wouldn't deserve it. After the Challenger he earned way worse than he got."
"I suppose I should be thankful that you did not eliminate him," the CURE director said thinly. The Master of Sinanju stood next to Remo at the phone bank. The old man was staring glumly at the passengers as they hurried back and forth across the terminal.
"It is I who convinced Remo not to remove the fat Russian, Emperor," Chiun called.
"Please thank Master Chiun for his restraint."
"Now, there's a phrase you don't hear every day," Remo said dryly. "And don't be too free with the thanks until you hear whose ticket he wanted us to punch instead."
"Sinanju skills should not be wasted on some roly-poly retiree, Emperor Smith," Chiun said. "I wanted to remove the dangerous pretender who sits on Tzar Ivan's throne. He is a little man, and little men always have something to prove."
Remo looked down at Chiun. At just five feet tall, the old man's bald scalp came up to his shoulder. "Er, thank Master Chiun for the warning, but tell him I want no harm to come to their current president," Smith said.
"Don't thank him for that one, thank me," Remo said. "I just wanted the old one. But I knew you'd go apeshit if I killed him. Besides, that thing on his head made a pretty good one. After that, the rest just wrote itself."
"It is good you went no further," Smith said. "Given the attempt by Feyodov to provoke a confrontation between our two nations, there is no telling how the Russians might react to the sudden, mysterious death of a former national leader."
"Boo-hoo-hoo for the Russians," Remo said, scowling.
Smith forged ahead. "As for the cosmonauts who were stranded on Mir, they have been rescued. The shuttle with them aboard landed an hour ago."
"Send them a bill," Remo grumbled.
"But do not expect them to pay," Chiun offered.
"So that's it," Smith said. "Theodore Schwartz, the man who financed this whole scheme, is in custody. You have taken care of Feyodov and the Barkley end." The older man hesitated, considering his next words. "Now that this is over, there are things we need to discuss when you return."
Remo noted the cryptic edge suddenly in Smith's voice.
"I don't like the sound of that. If you're thinking of throwing us out, don't," Remo warned. "Chiun didn't get the free house he was banking on and now with the three Buffoon Aid stars MIA, he's thinking he won't ever see one from that quarter. Though if we got one buck each from everyone who's ever had to put up with the multi-untalented Yippee Goldfarb on Oscar night, we'd be in clover."